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Rnnlc, A t 11 U 



CXIPXRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



THE DOOR 

and other poems 

BY 

DANIEL SARGENT 

Author of "Our Gleaming Days" 




BOSTON 

RICHARD G. BADGER 

THE GORHAM PRESS 



Copyright, 1921, by Daniel Sargent 



All Rights Reserved 






m 13 1922 



Made in the United States of America 
The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A. 



©nU653533 



DEDICATION 

/ lay this lureath of <verses on the grave 
Of Barrett Wendell for the smile he gave 
To verses ivhen I layed them on his knee, 
Just yesterday when still he sat ivith me. 



CONTENTS 

FAGB 

The Door 9 

Old People in the Spring ii 

Luigia 12 

Of Star and Stone and Tree 13 

The Moon at Noon-Day 14 

The Little Streams 15 

Hunger 16 

A Voyage 17 

The Annunciation 19 

The Seven-Fifteen 22 

What Might Have Been 24 

A Visit to the Pope 25 

The Hearth 27 

Dream Well! Dream Well! 28 

The Burial of Saint Elizabeth 30 

The Joy of Columbus 35 

Shame on Them 37 

What Shall Your Wishing Be? 39 

Verdun 41 

Greenland 44 

Midnight 45 

Visitors 47 

The Stream 49 

Sunlight 50 

The Winter That Came in the Nineties .... 51 

Often at Night 53 



THE DOOR 



THE DOOR 



I sing the praises of the common door, 
Which slams so loudly when the servant-girl 
Forgets to close it, and the autumn roar 
Hastens to enter with its leaves awhirl. 

I do not praise it that its knob is bright 
That in its brass the chore-man sees his face 
So long distorted as in woeful plight 
When down to polish it he takes his place. 

Nor do I praise it for its blue or green. 

That's my affair whatever be its hue. 

I praise it proudly that it stands between 

What's in, w^hat's out, and cuts the world In two. 

Two-faced, it sees the winter and my fire, 
And blesses both; and in the darksome night 
When stars flock down about the village spire, 
It stands between great darkness and my light. 

It sends back bleak December to the hill, 
The January snow it bids to wait 
Like an unwelcome guest upon the sill, 
And when the sun comes, leaves it to its fate. 

It knows a friend, and opens without groan, 
But once an enemy stood and cursed its latch, 
Rattled its knob and kicked it like a stone; 
It would not budge. The scoundrel met his match. 

9 



The Door 



Holly grows o'er it at the Christmas tide, 
At Easter-tide it sees the crocus near, 
When June is green, it opens sudden wide 
That every listening wall the birds may hear. 

When I shall die, then let it sorry be 
But never, never, let it know the plight 
To guard an empty house — ^What misery! — 
To hear no footstep and to see no light. 



lO 



The Door 



OLD PEOPLE IN THE SPRING 

When Spring comes in, then turn old people gay, 
They walk 'twixt showers, they put their wraps 

away ; 
They cross the street, they pause, they tread the 

sun. 
They see the boys play marbles, children run, 
When Spring comes in. 

They see the gulls fly where the ice has been. 
They point with canes, they show where grass turns 

green. 
They cannot stay abed, their sleeping ends. 
They stop in sunny streets, they talk to friends. 
When Spring comes in. 

Old people, it is theirs, the sunny Spring! 
They walk to church, they hear the sparrows sing. 
They lose of age full twenty years or more. 
Old people chirp. Old people pass the door. 
When Spring comes in. 



u 



The Door 



LUIGIA 

O Trojan mob who like an army wait 
At Priam's gate when Helen passes by. 
She comes! She comes! You shove. You crowd 

elate. 
She veils her swan-like neck, she lifts her eye 
Above your heads in pride majestical. 
Shout while you can. Now fallen is her state. 
Luigia is the flower of ladies all. 

You populace that like a torrent run 

From Alexandria's market-place to see 

Your Cleopatra's galley in the sun 

Burn on the glittering tide, while Anthony 

Plays with his lady's rings in carnival. 

Shout loud, then weep. Your lady's day is done. 

Luigia is the flower of ladies all. 

O people of Verona still you cry 
There is no flower, no bride but Juliet. 
Now shine the stars, now Romeo creeps nigh. 
The casement stirs, he waiteth breathless yet. 
Then forth she gleams. O dawn, O festival. 
But cease your plaint. Now Juliet's hour is by. 
Luigia is the flower of ladies all. 

Luigia is the queen among the queens, 
The lark of larks, the moment's nightingale, 
The shout of joy, the daffodil that leans. 
The daisy in the dark, the crocus frail. 
The star of stars, the love-taught madrigal. 
Sing, sing on, for all my singing means 
Luigia is the flower of ladies all. 
12 



The Door 



OF STAR AND STONE AND TREE 

Three were the portents on that road, 

A shadowy stone, a star that glowed, 

And a dark-houghed tree past which I strode. 

Surely he sings all mystery 

Who sings of star and stone and tree. 

A star so high, O star so bright. 

Image of clarity and light, 

O guard, O keep me in the sight. 

Surely he sings all mystery 

Who sings of star and stone and tree. 

O stone so dark, O stone so cold. 

How was thy darkness ever rolled 

From the mouth of a tomb in the days of old ? 

Surely he sings all mystery 

Who sings of star and stone and tree. 

O tree so kind, O tree so nigh, 

So prized by earth, so loved by sky, 

Shadow our brows as we pass by. 

Surely he sings all mystery 

Who sings of star and stone and tree. 



13 



The Door 



THE MOON AT NOON-DAY 

Above the round green summit of the tree 
Between it and the noon-day's gaudy sun, 
I see the moon as buried in a sea, 
Like coin within a stream where waters run. 

'Tis true that from a dock one sunny day 
I saw a stone three fathoms 'neath the tide 
Which passing ripples blurred. The white stone lay 
As dim as does this moon in heaven wide. 

And I remember too how in a well 

I saw a light as furtive as this moon 

Which was my own round face which truth to tell 

Looked up at me one thirsty afternoon. 

But never have I seen a thing so lorn, 

So cast aside, not last year's calendar. 

Not last year's robe when this year's robe is worn, 

Not last year's law by this year's senator. 

And glad I am this white road does not please 
To lead to vanished moons. I am content 
To stay more close to earth, to pass the trees, 
To walk in sunlight's eye till day is spent. 



U 



The Door 



THE LITTLE STREAMS 

The nights grow still that little streams be heard: 
The trickle by the road where naught hath stirred, 
The brook across the field, the secret rill 
Deep in the hemlock darkness of the hill. 

The fountain in the square where houses sleep, 
The pools in star-lit meadows as they seep. 
The tip-tip-tip of tearlets from a stone 
On garden terrace where the moon is lone. 

If nights were bright as day, if birds should sing. 
And shouts be in the field and harvesting, 
And dust-clouds on the road, if in the town 
Never the to-and-fro should weary down, 

If all night long the sophists still were wise, 
If bargaining drove moonlight from the skies. 
Then were we deaf: poor souls, we could not heaf 
The little streams that make the earth so dear. 



15 



The Door 



HUNGER 

Set me a golden omelette in the sun, 
Here where my fork is flashing in the air, 
Here where my leaden weariness is done. 
Here by a throne would make a king despair. 

'Tis sweet to be a monarch and to spend 
Ten thousand rubies in a glass of wine, 
Sweeter to be a beggar and to bend 
His lips to taste that wine as I bend mine. 

I raise my fork and from the omelette's gold 
I carve a morsel for my watering tongue. 
Old noble hunger, by this fork I hold. 
Why are no praises to thy honor sung? 



i6 



The Door 



A VOYAGE 

They were a fleet of ships, these nephews three, 
Whom spinster aunt toward the circus led, 
For on each sailor-hat the world could see 
Name of a gallant ship in glory spread. 

The U. S. S. Decatur and the Maine 
Sailed with the Philadelphia down the street. 
And now the great smooth circus-tent w^as plain; 
The crowd surged in ; breathless they kept their feet. 

They heard the steam calliope, they saw 
^Pictures that raised their hair. In battle-line 
They passed the ticket-gate, and now with awe 
They heard the terrible hyena whine. 

I doubt if voyage to the under-world 
Made by Aeneas in the days of old 
Ever revealed what that great tent unfurled 
Of dreams incredible, of tales untold. 

As Noah's great-grandchildren one rainy day 
Clutched to each other's hands as they were led 
In past the beasts who filled the ark so grey, 
They passed the elephants and froze with dread. 

Then came all things impossible and strange: 
Men walked the sky, and ladies flew in air. 
Men dangled by their teeth, or for a change 
Turned somersaults from a horse, and took no care. 



17 



The Door 



Do you blame these children that at first they gazed 
Incredulous? They did not quite believe 
Till a clown fell on his head, they were amazed 
To hear him weep so loud : it made them grieve. 

They saw a dog who on his hind-legs walked, 
Nodding his head, a basket on his arm. 
A Chinaman up to the tent-roof stalked 
Upon a wire, slid down, it did no harm. 

The charioteer who wore around his head 

A long green ribbon floating out behind 

Won all their hearts; at first his horses led, 

And they were black, the ones they called their kind. 

But then he lost, it seemed he must have thought 
There was another lap, he didn't try. 
Was this the end ? Then with a sadness fraught 
They streamed out with the crowd, and found the 

sky. 

And when they stood before their father's door 
The spinster aunt straightened their hats, each one, 
Which seemed so trivial. And they moved once 

more 
Three battleships to port, their voyage done. 



i8 



The Door 



THE ANNUNCIATION 

Of the most joy that ever was on earth 
How could I sing? The subject is too high. 
I can not leap to heaven. I have no worth 
To imitate the angels of the sky. 
And yet if gratitude gives songs their birth 
Then must I sing, or else my heart would die. 
How can I sing or how be still ? Alas, 
Are singers all within so dire a pass? 

And so I sing of how the angel came 

To Mary at her home in Nazareth 

Cleaving the twilight's hush and breathed her name 

Speaking it softly as the night-wind's breath, 

Yet making her body wake as with a flame. 

'Twas after sunset, so the story saith, 

Just when the earth grew still and she could hear 

The sheep-bells from the hills come rippling near. 

And she had lit a candle and she read 
Of what Isaiah wrote, the miracle: 
"A Virgin shall conceive." — She bowed her head. — 
"And bear a son." And in a trance she fell. 
*'How blessed is that woman." Then she said: 
"How I would yearn beside that maid to dwell 
To do her bidding and to kiss her feet. 
Only to serve her were a lot most sweet." 



19! 



The Door 



Just as she spoke, though no sound came, she knew 
A spirit had entered. And she turned and saw 
An angel with a palm who toward her drew. 
Some say she blushed, some say she shrank with awe, 
Some say she fainted, but it is not true. 
This perfect maid, this virgin without flaw, 
Opened her heart, and waited tranquil there 
Like lily which in the dark grows doubly fair. 

''How could it be," she asked, ''that one as I, 
Who knows no man, could bear a child?" And then 
The angel shone so bright. She lowered her eye. 
And then she heard its voice so clear again, 
Telling her how a God would from the sky 
Descend into her womb and live with men. — 
And all the joy that tingled in her blood 
But filled her as a vase that empty stood. 

And then the angel faded and around 

All things stood but as always. She could see 

The roofs of Nazareth and she heard no sound, 

Save what each night drifts in familiarly. 

And through the room she looked and there she 

found 
The lily and her book; and silently 
The candle glowed upon them. Wondrous clear 
The days of all her childhood hovered near. 



2b 



The Door 



Her mother had walked this floor, her father too; 
She still could hear their words. But both were 

dead. 
The stars grew brighter as they used to do. 
She smelt the sweetness from the garden spread. 
The vine-leaves rustled as the night-wind blew. 
Then once again Isaiah's words she read. 
They seemed so different now. She waited there 
Of all the universe the flower most fair. 

She could believe it all, but why, O why 
Had she the most unworthy of her line 
Have so been chosen? How could Joseph's eye 
As in he entered with his brow benign 
Not find her worthless of a call so high? 
She heard his footsteps now. There w^as no sign 
Of what had lately passed. She sat alone. 
Queen of the stars, heir to the heaven's throne. 



21 



The Door 



THE SEVEN-FIFTEEN 

I know a murky train has never seen 
One ray of sunshine bright at Riverside, 
It breathes a dozen puffs at seven-fifteen 
Rolls from the station with a burst of pride. 

By eight o'clock it rumbles o'er the ties 
Of the bridge at Riverside. Alas the sun 
No longer sees its headlight from the skies. 
Years it has run this race, but never won. 

It is a train too late. It can not know 
How fields are golden in the day-light's gaze, 
For Riverside, where gentle waters flow 
Is where the fields begin and happy ways. 

None but the souls belated ever ride 

This train of gloom. From Boston day by day 

Shadows with bended head into it glide. 

Home they must go by night, the best they may. 

What mocking unconcern the station shows! 
How self-complacent is the stuffy car. 
At seven-fifteen as if on time it goes. 
Dragging its tail-light like an evening star. 

One seat contains two men whose watches lied, 
A dozen times their anger winds the stem, 
To teach the works more care. And side by side 
They curse the hands that so belated them. 



22 



The Door 



Another tells himself a hundred times 

How he forgot a parcel, back he ran. 

'Twas all in vain. The iron step he climbs 

Of the seven-fifteen, which speeds the best it can. 

Yet even on the longest summer day 

There ever is that dark at Riverside, 

The day has found its end. The fields are gray. 

Trees have no golden leaves. A life has died. 

By that time like a gaoler through the train 
Has moved the grave conductor with an eye 
Merciless on the tickets, he has ta'en 
Count of his prisoners and passes by. 

They sliall be free each from his purgatory 
At some embowered station dim with light. 
There may some youth, escaped, unroll his story 
To damozel who comes to meet him white. 

One danger lasts; let no man fall asleep 
Dreaming him home, sped onward through the 

gloom, 
A brakeman with a lantern by will creep 
Like a demon waking spirits in their tomb. 



23 



The Door 



WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN 

One man bewails he lived not in that day 

Before base guns were heard, when swords were 

bright; 
I saw him in the street-car on his way 
Back from the bank. The city flashed with light. 

Another rages that he was not born 

When men with clubs made war on wolves and 

bears, 
I saw him by his hearth-stone sit forlorn, 
Hearing his plaintive infant cry upstairs. 

Another can't forgive the time's mistake 
That so delayed him that he was not there 
His baton from Napoleon to take 
And break at Waterloo the British square. 

King-haters had been kings had they lived then, 
There w^ould have been ten million Lancelots, 
Not one of us had lived like common men. 
We all live out of time, our valor rots. 

I too suspect had I lived long ago 
I would have been — ah, well I will not say, — 
Not as it is when all the neighbors know 
The truth for all the bombast I display. 

And yet this pufF of smoke, at which I gaze. 
If I'd lived then, would never have been lined 
With all time's memory, so blue with haze. 
Knights, troubadours, and saints. I had been blind. 

24 



The Door 



A VISIT TO THE POPE 

The ruler of the fatherland of peace, 
I mean the Pope, received one happy day 
In audience, his daughter named Louise: — 
She'd come to five years old, I've heard men say. 

Yet she was married, and this tale could tell 
Her husband's trials, but it were too long. 
He does his duty when he spanks her well. 
But she alone shall dance into this song. 

She rolled her hoop which was her latest toy, 
Up to the Vatican : Pope Benedict 
Looked out and all his features turned to joy. 
The Swiss guards raised their spears; their heels 
they clicked. 

The Pope cried : "Lead her in." And in she came. 
She brought her hoop and stick. She was so small 
The stairs seemed endless. Then she gave her 

name. 
"Tell him it's just Luigia, that is all." 

"Luigia!" said the Pope, and down she knelt. 
He blessed her hoop, her stick, and blessed her hair, 
And asked about her toys and how she felt. 
She wished to tell him all, she did not dare. 



25 



The Door 



Then out she ran, — the guardsmen all amazed — 
It seemed a halo floated o'er her head, 
For with her hands above her brows she raised 
Her toy, the hoop, and joyously she fled. 

And now the wonder ! First the stick it fell, 
Then down she reached both hands — that I will 

sw^ear — 
And yet the Swiss guards to a man will tell 
The hoop stayed like a halo in the air. 

Her nurse, the angel guardian, just then 
Sent her along, there is no more to say. 
For all I know the pious Vatican 
Thinks that it saw a saint until this day. 

I told this story to a canon grave: 

''She is no saint," he said. "But who can tell? 

This hoop may teach the lady to behave. 

So let her keep her toy, and guard it well." 



26 



The Door 



THE HEARTH 

When fades the west sky dark 
Then dawns the hearth-stone bright, 
Above the log its spark 
Makes gold the ceiling's height. 
It dawns. And yet no hill 
Hears wide the farm-cock crow. 
Soft to the window-sill 
Its farthest splendors glow. 

It flames. It leaps on high. 
And yet on earth it stays 
To light the fire-dogs' eye 
To make the faggot blaze. 

One day to ask I dared — 
'Twas when Ifke summer day 
Upon the walls it flared 
And warmed me with its ray. 
Why never like the sun 
Up through the cloudy flue 
It did not mount and run 
And make the heavens blue. 
Its angry lash grew red, 
A spark lept to my chair. 
"I own the house," it said, 
''The walls, the roof, the stair." 

"I own your children all, 
I owned your father too." 
I felt my eyelids fall. 
Close to the hearth I drew. 
27 



The Door 



DREAM WELL! DREAM WELL! 

Whether it was the sunlight on the grass, 
Or on his brow, the brow the shadow of a tree, 
Or in his brain the gentle thoughts that pass, 
I saw him fall asleep most helplessly. 

'Twas not beside a hay-mow in the field 
Nor on a terrace in its golden dream. 
But in a city park where loud there pealed 
The strident taxis in their endless stream. 

I think he must have passed some years ago 
That birth of kindliness called three-score ten, 
Which made him child-like though his hair was 

snow. 
He had a beard like venerable men. 

Now it was June, and all the flowers were young. 
His lips were red, and in his hand he held 
The daily news which in loud letters sung 
Of Polish victories so strangely spelled. 

I chose the bench beside him ; first I spied 
From his worn hand the useless paper fall, 
As on an autumn day there often glide 
Leaves from a silent tree, when no winds call. 

I watched his hand. I saw its red sealed ring 
The letter A^ on its enamel writ. 
What was his name? That I sat wondering. 
Nestor or plain Napoleon might fit. 

28 



The Door 



His white beard fell upon his pin and tie, 
And hid his vest, like beards that warriors wore 
Of Charlemagne, which to the poets' eye 
Hid half their hauberks in the days of yore. 

And now he slept. I wonder what he dreamed. 
I'll wager well he left old age behind. 
Perhaps he swam a Hellespont, \ifhich gleamed. 
Tasted the good salt waves, and labored blind. 

Tell me, good reader, if perchance you know. 
Had he ten brothers? Did he go to war? 
And was he shipwrecked once though long ago? 
And tells he stories that he told before? 

And now he wakes. — O Rip Van Winkle old 
Who rubbed his eyes when twenty years were passed 
And found no dog, nor any wife to scold, 
You stood not more perplexed, not more aghast. 

Where was he? Not in region that he knew. 
Nor had he died. This was not paradise. 
A hundred taxis at that rnoment blew 
Their ugly horns. No angels filled the skies. 

He knew the scent of June. The air was clear. 
He picked his paper up. And I could see 
How painful were his knees. He saw me near. 
Yet feigned that he was blind, half-shamefacedly; 

Then eyed me once again. Was I a spy ? 
Had I seen in his dreams? Then off he crept. 
For it was plain to his old kindly eye 
That I had read a book the while he slept. 
29 



The Door 



THE BURIAL OF SAINT ELIZABETH 

White was the cloud which in an autumn sky 

Towered above a castle and a wood 

While I below, within a meadow stood 

Beside a chapel, which it chanced mine eye 

Found by a river nigh. 

Then on I moved as sadly as the stream 

Which rippled neath the sky that in it lay: 

And lone I was and lost as in a dream; 

When sudden came a chanting far away 

Which made my footsteps stay. 

At first it seemed the sound of April rain. 

Or else the sound heard o'er a grassy plain 

Of children in their distant happiness, 

Or else the laughter of the waving grain. 

So half in joyfulness 

And half in wistfulness, 

I paused beside the stream that flowed along. 

O might the sound find echo in my song. 

So sweet the sound, how could mine eyes but turn 
Towards that forest whence the singing came? 
And there I saw its leafage leap aflame 
With happy spring-tide and with verdure burn 
Which made my footsteps yearn 
To thread its sunny arches, for alas, 
When autumn frowns, we love the summer well. 
But then I asked. **How can it come to pass 
That leaves of joyous May have right to dwell 
Here in this autumn dell? 

30 



The Door 



Never a song could make a wood so green 

As here before my startled eye is seen." 

Then from beneath the brow of trees lept bright 

A ray as from a crystal flashed so keen 

That with its piercing light 

It robbed me of my sight. 

And ever now the chanting grew more strong 

As if its mirth would enter in my song. 

Then died the flash, and straightway I could see 

It was a golden cross that sent the beam, 

A cross which from the forest marched agleam 

Moving across the meadow steadily 

Bringing the spring to me. 

"Is this the winter turned to spring?" I cried. 

No wonder like a helpless child amazed 

I watched the throng from out the forest glide 

Thinking I dreamed, or by a thought was dazed. 

And then more keen I gazed. 

The cross was borne by God's own troubadour 

By brother of that Francis who of yore 

Gave earth for heaven away. 

And after him his bare-foot brothers bore 

A coffin all made gay 

By flowers that filled the day. 

And yet a sadness followed with the throng. 

So Death, it seems, comes often in a song. 

As moved the throng so crept the spring-tide near 
Spreading the meadow gorgeous as in June 
With daisies and with sunny clover strewn 

31 



The Door 



And o'er the shining field at last came clear 

The song unto my ear: 

"We bear a princess to her grave." They sang. 

*'The daughter of a mighty king." They cried. 

"From out the blood of Charlemagne she sprang. 

Her fathers held the cross against the tide 

Of Tartars in their pride 

Surging against the plains of Hungary 

But though her birth was noble, verily, 

Far nobler w^as her death, for she w^as then 

Blood kindred to heaven's gentlest royalty, 

To Clare and Philomen 

And God's true noblemen." 

So rose the chant. O may it echo long. 

Far longer than the echoes of my song. 

"The castle far whose walls first heard the cry 

At birth of this our loved Elizabeth," 

So sang the chorus with new-taken breath, 

"Is grander than the castle which the eye 

Sees in the cloud-capped sky. 

And vast and gray with legend is the keep 

Of castle Wartburg where in nuptial bright 

Duke Louis clasped her in her wedded sleep, 

While angels drew beside them from the height 

And guarded their delight. 

But far more like the birthplace of a God 

Standeth the hovel where she widowed trod. 

And where upon the straw at last she died 

Robed like Saint Francis and like him unshod. 

32 



The Door 



There had she come to hide 

Where under Marburg glide 

The waters of that stream she walked along." 

The river Lahn which ripples in my song. 

Had I but tongues of angels I would sing 

Each word I heard within that meadow bright 

Of Saint Elizabeth, the sky's delight. 

Then every word that from my lips would ring 

Would hold you listening. 

Fairest of all is tale of how she rode 

Beside her husband to the far crusade 

Daring not leave him lest her heart that glowed 

Would break at parting. Till at last she said 

As her farewell she made, 

"Would I Saint Michael were to go with thee!" 

And he rode on alone, and death he found. 

And she a widow cast in misery 

Heard in her heart Saint Francis's minstrelsy 

And followed blithe the sound 

Bare-footed on the ground. 

So sweet her life, so short, and yet so long. 

O might you find its gladness in my song. 

Elizabeth, Elizabeth, no more 

Shall wretched people with their tears in eye 

Haste desperate o'er the fields to find you nigh, 

And knock with sobs of anguish at your door 

Your sweet prayers to implore. 

Perhaps a sheep has wandered or a child, 

Perhaps an infant lieth near to death 

33 



The Door 



Which till to-day in happy laughter smiled. 

But surely God will hear Elizabeth 

And give the child new breath. 

Those happy days are vanished as I see 

The crowd now vanish pressing radiantly 

Into the chapel, singing one and all 

Even the leper who came stealthily 

Into the church to crawl 

And crouch against the wall. 

May lepers all in heaven leap clean and strong 

As would the praise that echoes in my song. 

And while I gazed, the spring-tide left the field 

And all the world grew desolate and old 

As if to make a path for winter cold. 

Then o'er my head a flock of bright birds wheeled 

Which to the chapel reeled 

And ranged them there like to a glistening choir 

With one upon the cross which raised his wing,- 

Upon the cross, I say, which gleamed like fire. — 

And such sweet melody I heard them sing 

As held me trembling. 

O winter dark, these choristers from high 

Belonged not to the cavern of thy sky, 

Nor were the simple accents of their praise 

Uttered for me who stood the chapel nigh. 

Far up to heaven's gaze 

Circled their roundelays 

Bringing a soul to where all souls belong 

To heaven which needs no echoes of my song. 

34 



The Door 



THE JOY OF COLUMBUS 

Columbus sailed from Palos as you know. 
He crossed the harbor's starting-mark of foam, 
Then steered as many crescent-moons as glow 
'Twixt June and August in the heaven's dome. 

But still no land. He passed a hundred skies, 
Headed towards a hundred evening stars, 
Fled from a hundred dawnings and their eyes, 
Threaded a hundred noons that arched his spars. 

But still no land. He crossed so many seas 

That one small heaven's cloud stood large as 

Spain — 
One island cloud with snowy Pyrenees. — 
But never he passed the mid-point of the main. 

But still no land. He heard as mapy sighs 

Lapping against his caravel's frail null 

As from the dead and living could not rise. 

The shouts that rang from Spain had found a lull. 

But still no land. Familiar things had passed. 
The sea had turned to weed. The compass veered. 
And thrice at night a fire burned on the mast. 
The wind blew like a gasp. Yet on he steered. 

But still no land. This smoothness that he found 
Must be that final mill-pool where the sea 
Gathers its flotsam from the world around 
And pours its burden to inanity. 

35 



The Door 



But still no land. At last the dawn grew bright 
In all four heavens, and the ocean bore 
A hill of palm-trees, and the shore's delight 
Heard him call out its name, ^'San Salvador." 

Then, was it tongues unknown that made him gay? 
Parrots, and naked men, the strange, undreamed? 
— For that he knelt devoutly down to pray. 
Mountains of rubies to his fancy gleamed. 

But greater was his joy to find still nigh 

The fragrance blown from Spain. He cried with 

glee: 
" 'Tis Andalusia, April in the sky! 
Seville, the Guadalquivir under me." 



36 



The Door 



SHAME ON THEM 

What jolly name it bore, the little bark, 
That sailed the solemn Pilgrims over sea, 
Think of these men who saw the world so dark 
Riding a Mayflower to felicity. 

'Tis true the seas had half erased the name 
From its great letters on the pompous stern. 
And, then, I think that goody-goody fame 
Of that brave ship has yet a lot to learn. 

I know two children on a sunny day 
Played with a barrel-hoop in plainest view, 
Although one stoic with a face of clay 
Felt acid in his heart and greener grew. 

There was a puppy too the sailors cursed 
Who took in well-coiled ropes his chief delight. 
And when he'd twisted them his utter worst 
Ran tail between his legs and yelped with fright. 

Think of old Bradford, as the winds well know, 
W^hen his peaked hat went skimming from his head. 
And landed on a wave, his friends laughed so 
They had to turn their backs, their faces red. 

Shame on the two who saw an evening cloud 
And wagered was it fog-bank or a land ! 
They still stayed friends, although the loser vowed 
He had been right, he still would pledge his hand. 



37 



The Door 



Then on that final day when land was near, 
And women wept and crowded to the rail, 
And men moved slowly at their home to peer 
And the captain shouted, and they trimmed the sail, 

The steersman danced a morris with his heel. 

And grim Miles Standish laughed, " Tis not so 

bad." 
And raised a little child a glance to steal 
Of how a land looked all in forest clad. 



38 



The Door 



WHAT SHALL YOUR WISHING BE? 

The sky Is fire, the trees are black, the hills are blue, 
Fishermen light their flaring pipes, the day is 

through. 
Close to the rippling shore the half-moon treads 

the sea. 
'Tis the hour to wish. What shall your wishing be? 

By the boats the fishermen lounge, the dark masts 
etch the sky, 

The moon's white horn is far, the lighthouse 
watches nigh, 

'Tis Cannes, the twilight blue, the night come sud- 
denly. 

*Tis the hour to wish. What shall your wishing be? 

Wish you were with that sail that on the sea's lorn 

rim 
Grey at the sun's last flare stood mist-like, secret, 

dim. 
Lost is its shadow now. Where flees it silently? 
'Tis the hour to wish. What shall your wishing be? 

Wish you yon beggar were, down-bent, that taps a 
cane. 

Threading the dark sweet air; he halts, he moves 
again. 

What doorways hear his stick, passing them plain- 
tively ? 

'Tis the hour to wish. What shall your wishing be ? 



39 



The Door 



A moon-lit gate were yours, if you a Croesus were, 
Fountains, a long smooth path, mimosa leaves astir, 
And eucalyptus trees, and halls of courtesy. 
'Tis the hour to wish. What shall your wishing be? 

Two thousand years ago, past dark Sainte Mar- 
guerite 

Sailed Lazarus through the night, — the scent of 
France came sweet. 

His torn sail caught the dawn. Would you live 
then and see? 

'Tis the hour to wish. What shall your wishing be ? 

Nay, live not then, nor now, but centuries on and 

know 
How France shall darken then, how then its lights 

shall glow. 
Will Roland guard it then, Sainte Jeanne, and Saint 

Denis? 
'Tis the hour to wish. What shall your wishing be ? 



•¥> 



The Door 



VERDUN 

I 

Men that march up to Verdun! 

How the tread that flowed like a rhythm is drowned 

by a sea 
That storms at a fortress of Europe loved by the 

sun. 
And the sun fares low to the cheek and it tenderly 
Touches with courage the white dust guarding them 

on. 

On moves their cloud in its dream, and the sun with 

its gold 
Sinks blind in the darkness of hills. A chill ! They 

have turned 
To the ancient mercy of sky; in the calm of its fold 
A wing of bright silver flashed. — To the sun it still 

burned. 

Men that are birds! It is gone! And the dusk of 
the way 

Melts under a gate to a gloom, where the glint of 
the eye 

Turns black at the ruins which lower, and tongue- 
less that pray. 

And the Meuse steals under their path like a vein 
of the sky. 



41 



The Door 



O the black steep cliff of the Meuse with the sky at 

its brow! 
They mount from the foothills that shake, to the 

ridges, grow dim 
In the smoke that shakes on the forehead of thunder, 

Now! 
And a lightning shows what is dark in the tillage 

grim ! 
Men that march up to Verdun! 

II 

Men that march down from Verdun! 

Look ! a sign like a lamp at a tomb has glared in the 

East! 
First pale as a mist in a brook, then lifted and clear, 
And the wall of the sky turns glass, and a star-light 

has ceased ; 
So down through the stealth of ravines they trickle 

and veer. 

How still is the Meuse! A bridge; dark, loud to 

the tread! 
Then a city of tombs, and at last the long highway 

has stilled 
The roar that disputed the world. And the silence 

is spread 
Like a tribute fair to the dawn. And the silence is 

filled 



42 



The Door 



By the mornfng song of a bird. But they march as 
yet owned 

By the chaos once that was all, still rumbling behind. 

The dust, it is sweet with the dew. The calm day 
is throned 

On the fair blue might of the hills. They are plod- 
ding still blind. 

Till at last as by doom of a full-chorded rush of the 
leaves 

Of long-guarding poplars up leaps the sun to partake 

Of the bright fair order of France, its fields, and its 
eaves, 

And proves them of France once again by their 
shadows which wake. 

Men that march down from Verdun ! 



43 



The Door 



GREENLAND 

Here from this rippled sand a ship might steer 
Out to the sea's broad ridge and hail no land, 
And yet this night at sunset I have scanned 
A Greenland made of cloud white-glittering near. 
I see its snows, I see its mountains clear. 

A continent aflame! Its headlands stand 
Calling the sea to thunder on its strand. 
I smell its icy breath. Amazed I peer. 
I am the child again who years ago 
Read how the shaggy Norsemen sailed the sea, 
How they discovered Greenland, how their oars 
Caught on their sheathes of ice the sunset glow. 
How loud they cried with joy, how lustily 
They turned their dragon prow. They neared the 
shores. 



44 



The Door 



MIDNIGHT 

Who knows the hour when dark meets dark? 
The new day blind, the old day stark, 
The moonlight like a hoar-frost spread. 
Midnight, when graveyards count their dead? 

Hark to the bell, once more! once more! 
Tis twelve and on creation's shore 
The bright stars see like vessel dim 
The new day through the darkness skim. 

O, who now wakes, O who can see 

In this dark room of mystery, 

Who sees the old day kiss the new 

Except the owl which cries: "Too-whoo!" 

"I," says the reveller. "Yo, to ho! 
I see each star. Let dawn be slow. 
This is my noon. And hark my song 
Wakes house-tops as I pass along." 

"I," says the soldier. "By command 
I walk my post, and with my hand 
I touch my pistol; have no fear: 
The corporal of the guard is near." 

"I," says the robber. "As I climb 
To the balcony, I mark the time. 
When madame wakes with hair in eye 
I shall be done, and heave a sigh." 



45 



The Door 



"I," said the girl who could not sleep. 
"I," cried a voice which made men weep. 
"Yet I shall die before the morn." 
'*!," wailed the infant, newly-born. 

Midnight how faithfully thou still 
Bringest to earth each night the chill 
And darkness of that primal hour 
E'er ever a sun had burst in flower. 

No men lived then, the hills stood tryst 
For sign of a daw^n's first amethyst. 
No wonder a man becomes once more 
At midnight a ghost at creation's door. 



46 



The Door 



VISITORS 

"I hear again a knock upon the door. 

The maid is out. Reader, before I go 

To draw the latch, guess whom I open for — 

You shake your head. My friends you do not know. 

"Reader, sit down and ask who it might be. 
The daughter of a King? I doubt it well. 
Hark to the list of those who visit me. 
The tale is short. One instant all can tell. 

"Sometimes 'tis Falstaff.— Ah, you think me mad- 
Nay, he comes often. I can hear him blow 
Climbing the door-step as in armour clad. 
He can not speak. His face is all aglow. 

"Thirsty? He waits no word. He asks the key. 
Then down the cellar-stairs we grope our way. 
He scrapes the cobwebs oH rf such there be 
With his round shape. I feel the staircase sway. 

"He wants Canary, but he says 'twill do. 
Good Burgundy will do! I fumble dim. 
But he has found the bottle. Up we go, 
And fill the winking glasses to the brim. 

"He has not come of late. Poor cellar-stair! 
But other friends I have, to your surprise 
There comes my patron saint, who takes such care, 
Saint Bernard from his chair in paradise. 



47 



The Door 



"You think I blush to greet him. Monk austere! 
My friend, he loves too well to ever see 
Aught but my helplessness. His eye is clear. 
He has a throne beside our Lady's knee. 

"I welcome all who to my door have stepped. 
Even Malvolio, I called him in. 
I gave him cakes which prove my wife adept. 
He scowled upon their froscing as a sin. 

"And yet it was not I, it was a friend 

Who threw him down the chimney w^here he stays. 

I must confess, it pleases me his end. 

I love to hear him howl on windy days. 

"Then there are others, sometimes learned men. 
I would go on, but hark the knock once more. 
An hour has passed, and still he knocks again. 
The guest must be a saint. I ope the door." 



48 



The Door 



THE STREAM 

Come live beside the stream 
For there earth meets the sky, 
There stillness floweth by, 
There sing the fields agleam. 

There bask the trees and dream; 
There dart the birds and fly. 
Come live beside the stream 
For there earth meets the sky. 

There shallows wink and beam, 

There sunny gardens lie 

There green hills bend them nigh. 

So paradise, I deem. 

Were naught without a stream. 



49 



The Door 



SUNLIGHT 

The simple light that makes a window kind 

And curtains golden and the sill aflame 

And four walls cheerful, — need I sing its name? — 

I mean the sunlight which the wakers find 

Soon after cock-crow at the window-blind, 

And which they curse at from their beds — for 

shame — 
Saying it robbed their dreaming when it came, 
This light has put a sonnet in my mind. 
And hark the sonnet how it sings with glee 
Saying the sunlight is a lover's eye, 
Saying it is a flower of golden light. 
Saying it is a dancer rapture-bright 
Saying it is a bridegroom passing by, 
Or else a bride who can the bridegroom see. 



50 



The Door 



THE WINTER THAT CAME IN THE 
NINETIES 

The barn-door is frozen, it opens no more 
An ocean of snow makes a wave at the door 
Said Michael, "Such winter was never before: 
Not the winter that came in the nineties." 

Not the winter that blew down the wind-mill and 

spread 
The snow on the river as if it were dead. 
And every roof leaked in the village, 'tis said, 
In the winter that came in the nineties. 

Methusaleh died at the cross-roads last night; 

His last words were these, and his beard was all 

white, 
"Look out for the floods when the spring comes in 

sight, 
'Tis the winter that came in the nineties." 

Old Widow McMullen fell down yesterday 
On the steps of the church, and they bore her away, 
Two burly express-men, who heard her lips say, 
"Ach, the winter that came in the nineties." 

The old village Adam who sleeps in his grave 
Turned over his bones, and a murmer he gave: 
"A winter like this teaches men to behave ; 
Like that winter that came in the nineties." 



51 



The Door 



O the ugly brick city remembers but nought, 

Or at best but a battle it never saw fought, 

Or a mayor that grew rich, or a thief that was 

caught, 
Not the winter that came in the nineties. 

Why then there was snow in the pines until May, 
The fields were a bog, till the time came for hay, 
The early potatoes turned mouldy to clay. 
O the winter that came in the nineties. 



S2 



The Door 



OFTEN AT NIGHT 

Often at night when hid from sight 
I can not sleep, 

When up I stare, but everywhere 
The dark is deep. 

When I have cried with eyes too wide, 
"Come sleep to me." 
When on my bed I turn my head 
In misery, 

Then at the last, my pain is passed, 
My breath sinks slow. 
My brow feels clear the sky draw near, 
And sweet tears flow. 

'Tis when my eye in heaven high 
Sees long, how long. 
Guards Mary bright in darkest night 
Above our wrong. 

She sees my bed, she sees my head, 
She sees my heart, 
She sees the foe I can not know, 
His fearful dart. 

What if we all in sleep should fall! 
She does not tire. 

She does not bow her gentle brow, — 
'Tis God's desire. 



53 



The Door 



She guardeth more than we Implore 
She is more near. 
She is the star no cloud can bar, 
No dread, no fear. 

If she one hour should leave her tower 
Then were we all 
Sent to our fate with sins too great 
The skies would fall. 

Ah, those who lie with sleepless eye 
They do partake 

One moment sweet before her feet 
To lie awake. 



54 



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